


Studies in Morality

by vanete_druse



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, Epistolary, F/M, Forbidden Love, M/M, Rich gentleman/servant, Victorian era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanete_druse/pseuds/vanete_druse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And there stood Temptation himself, fawn eyes reflecting the innocence that vanished from Douglas’ mind by his mere presence, hands outstretched slightly gracelessly, but nonetheless perfect simply by its connection to the body of his personal Dorian.</i>
</p><p>It is Victorian England, and Douglas Richardson is a wealthy gentleman, with a secret: he is a homosexual. When he hires Martin Crieff as his valet, he finds himself hopelessly in love, despite the dangers of the law.</p><p>Written as a fill for <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4207.html?thread=5073775#cmt5073775">this prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the reason it took me so long to update the last chapter of "Operation Secret Santa". To be honest, I'm not really sure how I feel about it, but I've written so much of it, I decided that I would just post it, and see what happens. I hope you guys like. 
> 
> Because of the length, I'm splitting it up into two parts, for easier reading.

30 May 18-

Dearest Carolyn -- Just a quick note to remind you of my existence. I apologize for the sudden hiatus in my calling upon you – I hope that you will find it in your heart of hearts to forgive me. It seems as though in my absence you have become a most respectable lady, and I must say, I’m very disappointed. The only ladies worth knowing are the dishonourable ones, and you, m’dear, have always been worth knowing.

I miss you terribly. Pray let me call upon you next Wednesday for lunch to reconcile.

Douglas Richardson.

*

31 May 18-

My dear Douglas -- Oh, you foul man! How do you sleep at night, in full knowledge of the way that you abandoned me? Thank Goodness Arthur is away at school; I fear what your influence would have on his horribly impressionable mind. I hope that in the coming times my name will bring upon you an air of guilt for your thoughtless transgression. My sensibilities urge me to forbid you my forgiveness, but my incredibly dishonourable heart grants your wish. I cannot deny it; I never shall be fully ‘respectable’ as my nature as tainted me thus far with the air of ‘worth knowing’, as you put it, but no matter. I’ll take infamous for one life time over famous for hundreds. There shall be no future generations biting their thumbs at me, good sir (although my association with you is ever jeopardizing this easily gained endeavor, and I have half a mind to do a thing about it).

Never fear, your correspondence has been placed in its usual spot if ever a time arises when confirmation of your proclivities with the fairer sex becomes necessary. I am sure this tawdry slice of wood pulp will be reduced to dust within moments of its arrival so I shan’t linger any longer than previously, and close succinctly: Do not be late. And yes, I shall be timing you.

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

  __*

The heat of summer months always excited Douglas, with its ability to flush the skin of untouched innocents in a mockery of intimacy, and he loved to wander the park in search of these fair skinned Beauties sweating underneath the shade of old oak trees. This same sun touched Carolyn’s hand as she reached for the sugar set in the middle of her table, that same gold flame that had kissed and caressed the flesh of youthful Ganymedes, but now the charm of it was gone, and it was a mere strip of light against her pale skin. “So, what is it this time? Another sailor boy with sticky fingers? Or are you at those gaudy letters again? You know it doesn’t pay to be in love, Douglas.”

“Come now, Carolyn. Can I not just wish to delight in the company of one of my oldest and best friends?” Douglas took a sip of tea, in mock offense at Carolyn’s words – yet the expression on her face remained, changeless, and with a sigh, he put his cup back down upon the table. “Discretion apparently has nothing to do with action, but rather with your connections. Lords and their disciples are able to flaunt their Shame without fear of consequence, but any of us lowly subjects so much as look at another in the wrong sort of fashion, and immediately we are labeled a criminal. Tell me where the fairness lies in that.”

“Fairness?” Carolyn cried in incredulity, a shake of her head noting her disapproval at the childish ideal. “Society is not about fairness, but rather the gold tiers that the minorities use to suppress the majority that threaten their privilege. You know this as well as any, if not more so; why do you insist upon this juvenile principle of Fairness?” She placed her cup onto its saucer with a soft tinkle of porcelain on porcelain, somehow abhorrently feminine in its daintiness. “Really, Douglas. Speak plain. What has happened?”

A few seconds ticked by in which Douglas attempted to conjure up a way to deflect, but this was Carolyn, who was far too intelligent and stubborn for her sex. “A boy was caught in my bed by a servant while I was in Italy. Rumours spread. I do not _believe_ they’ve followed me, however I do not wish to take that risk. Lord Masters was in the room beside me, and the night before I had stumbled upon him and an even prettier thing conducting themselves rather lewdly outside his door, without fear of servant’s eyes.

“Such boldness disgusts me. It is not a sign of courage amongst deviants, but a display of grotesque conceit.”

“You silly little men with your silly little problems,” Carolyn sighed, “Whenever will you learn to leave things be? I assume now you will wish for us to be seen in public.”

“It is doubtful it would be believed given your current preoccupation with Lord Shipwright, but yes.”

“Get that edge out of your voice, Douglas, one might mistake it for jealousy. If you are allowed your beaus, then I should be allowed mine. Hypocrisy is falling out of fashion, you know.”

Douglas could not contain a snort of derision. “There will never come a time in which hypocrisy is not the fashion. Perhaps it will be frowned upon in polite society, but always will it be our most profound internal pleasure. There is no changing human nature.”

“Soon enough, your cynicism will become contagious. Do take care of yourself, Douglas.” She rose as he did, extending a white hand to gently flit across his cheek, the motion betraying all the worry that she encased within the farthest corners of her bosom. Easily he felt that transfer of emotion in their contact and, briefly, did a bubble of regret tinge his mind.

However, as Carolyn dropped her hand, the moment passed; neutrality reentered her features and haughty apathy his; things were as they should be. “Don’t worry, darling, I always do.” He pressed a kiss into her knuckles with much flourish before taking his leave. Carolyn watched the door slam shut behind him, wondering about the depravity of the situation.

*

8 June 18-

Carolyn -- Do not keep this note, please dispose of it upon reading. I have full intentions upon exposing myself, for it is late, and I am drunk, despite all of my previous convictions. The feeling is not one that I relish and it leaves me with a question: what on Earth had I seen in such a state in the first place? Perhaps I am not drunk enough.

You see, my favorite servant has just left me. Deserted me, I should say, for his quarters are now empty, devoid entirely of any small facet that would betray that once it was occupied by a roguishly handsome boy, whom I never failed to delight in. What it especially does _not_ hold is any scrap of paper upon which I may have scribbled my indecency. There is no other situation to assume but the worst. I fear to view the morning paper in the case that my ruin shall be on display, for all of England and Her socialites to see, and I flinch from every sound should it become that of a fleet of brute men under the guise of the Metropolitan Police uniform coming to whisk me away to prison.

I do not know what I should do now. Hire another servant and wait out the inevitable, I suppose. There is only one thing that I am certain on and that is concerning the future treatment of the lower classes in my household. In a word: shan’t. In eight words: I shan’t get involved with any of them.

Oh God, I am a ruined man. I promise that your name shall remain untainted; I would not dare breathe a word of your knowledge under penalty of death.

Ever your friend, Douglas Richardson.

  __*

9 June 18-

My Douglas -- I do hope you have pulled yourself together since that last correspondence. Anyone who did not know you would mistake the letter writer for that of a hysterical woman, screeching and paranoid. Normally if such acts against your person are to be committed, there will first be a request to bury the matter under an impressive sum of money, and therein will lay your chance to vanish it. If a request does not appear, then more likely he simply acquired an interested party to ease his ascension into our ranks; haven’t you heard of John Gray? Of course you have. No doubt your little Adonis has followed in such footsteps.

Honestly, Douglas, I would not panic were I you. You were designed for a life of unheeded leisure and this stress could be quite detrimental to your health. Might I suggest a soothing visit to a Turkish bath to ease your mind?

Always Yours in Need, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

  __P.S. I shall also be holding you to your word of a lack of involvement with your lower classes. I’d give you a month, but that would be generous. You could do well to hire less tempting specimens but I suppose that would go against your nature. A bet, then, that in a fortnight you shall no doubt find some cause to fall back upon this pledge.

*

The next time Carolyn saw Douglas was at his place of residence for an ‘intimate get-together amongst a few close friends’. In actuality it was a hodge-podge spectacle of the most influential of the acquaintances that Douglas had made over the years - a magistrate, the son of an earl, a duke and his duchess. To give substance to such a distinguished guest list were a few blurry faced bankers with grey names like John Smith and an overly flamboyant magazine editor with a name like Artemis or Achilles. And in the midst of it all stood Douglas, a gross facsimile of joy and excitement that disgusted in its exaggeration. “Oh, my sweet, sweet darling!” He exclaimed, sweeping her into his arms to brush his lips against her cheek in a manner that could easily be mistaken for sensuality. “I am so glad you could make it.”

“You know that I am a slave to your little bashes, Douglas – I couldn’t resist, even if I desired.”

Introductions began, long and tedious, and by the end of it all everyone was worn out but attempting to cover this by gorging themselves upon the wine and cheese provided; all of the guests, besides Carolyn, were utterly given to that great vice, Alcohol, and therefore she alone could read the worry in the face of their host, hidden underneath each complicated layer.

When Carolyn could bear it all no longer, she stood, and gripped Douglas’ arm with an iron fist. “I have only to clear up a matter or two with our kind patron privately. I hope you all will forgive me for taking some of our time with him for my own.”

“Only if your intentions are immoral!” cried one from the crowd, most likely Apollo the editor. A lewd roar erupted in the wake of this distasteful comment but already Carolyn was shutting the door, closing them off from the realm of oppression and internalization, if only for a moment.

“I have never seen you submit yourself to such degradation before.”

“Then you do not know me as you think you do,” Douglas snapped, all pretense of enjoyment utterly evaporated. “Look, I only desired to know if any rumours had been going around, to make sure the air is clear before I hire a new servant.”

“You haven’t hired a new one yet?” Carolyn gasped. “How many do you have in total?”

“Not enough, certainly. With such an awful mess being perpetrated by these drunken louts, I fear that I may have to stoop so low as to have need of assisting the servants myself!” Sighing, the privileged gentleman ran a hand over his face, as if the action could somehow aid in steadying his dismay.

Carolyn took the hand within her own, not as an intimate connection, but rather a maternal one, and Douglas readily accepted the comfort. “Has there been talk of anything?”

“No, there has not. The advertisement will be placed in tomorrow’s morning papers.”

“See? All is well, as I’ve said. Life goes on.” Their hands unclasped, falling limply to their respective sides. “Now we should return to the main room, before the thoughts of your guests become any more improper than has already occurred.”

“Of course. But…” Lingering upon the door knob, Douglas did not yet open the door for her, and a sense of hesitance entered his features, not as a deliberate sense for effect, but rather that of a gracelessness that was not common for him. “Might I just first make it known that if you were planning upon making Lord Shipwright the happiest of men then you have my utmost support, and would of course extend my courtesies as far as necessary, particularly in the form of a celebration.”

“Selflessness does not suit you, Douglas,” was her immediate response, the normal amount of indifference that the pair had become accustomed to use with one another. “But…thank you.”

Douglas nodded and opened the door for her.

*

**VALET WANTED**

               FOR a distinguished gentleman, bachelor, in need of a younger male servant to obey his every whim and fancies. Requirements include an understanding of bed and toilet sets, and a distinct flair for the fashionable. No references necessary. Address 5 Durham Road.

*

The knock on the door was heard at the exact moment that Douglas had concluded breakfast. Given that the morning paper had only been released for an hour or so, thethought that the caller was an applicant did not even cross his mind when the footman arrived and said, “A young man to see you, sir. He was most insistent.”

“Did you show him into the sitting room?”

“No, I left him in the hall. I think you will understand why upon introduction.”

Ignoring this remark, Douglas made his way towards his front door, to find the man who waited. No older than mid-twenties, pale with a smattering of red hair that seemed exotic against the usual backdrop of dark and golden heads, Douglas found the entirety of his world overturned.

Upon closer inspection, one could see the frayed state of the old clothes, stained beyond repair from constant usage, and smell a slight pungent odor that river water could never wash away. But it did not matter to Douglas because this was the One, the Idol, the Muse. “M-my name is Martin Crieff, a-and I’m here about the valet position-“

“You’re hired,” Douglas interjected, without even realizing that he had said it until the words rang back through his ears and lingered on the expression of shock upon Martin’s face. It might have been comical had his knees not felt so weak, jelly under the gaze of hungry eyes.

“A-are you sure? I-I-I-"

“Positive. Remy,” Douglas called to his footman, without taking his eyes off of Martin, squirming uncomfortably under the unwavering attention. “Take Martin to the kitchen and give him some breakfast. Anything that he wants. Then call him a cab, so he can go home and pack. He starts work _immediately_.”

As if Fate itself had decided to strike a blow against his resolve, Martin threw himself upon his knees and grasped Douglas’ hands in his own, bringing them to those perfect lips, molded by Cupid himself. “Oh thank you, bless you, sir! I-I shall not disappoint you!”

“I don’t doubt that,” Douglas breathed as Remy dragged the emotional man away, his face already flushed from a slew of grateful tears. It wasn’t until Martin was out of sight that Douglas retreated into his bedroom to succumb to the wave of desire that left him utterly breathless.

*

20 June 18-

Oh Carolyn -- You shall mock me viciously for this output of emotion but so far I cannot think of any other outlet that I have, without making known my state of perturbation to the party it concerns. It occurred during my search for a replacement valet; the first of the applicants arrived after breakfast, a young man by the name of Martin Crieff. As you know, I resolved that thus far I should not become involved with any of my servants, which would have been left unfettered had not the earth moved out from under my feet.

Perhaps this is due to my disinclination towards conformity. God knows how I had begun to fear that bleak gray expanse of monotonous normalcy looming over my head. It was in this state that I first saw his face, and I swear to you that it was in that countenance that I saw Divinity.

I am sure that you tire of this drivel, my dear Carolyn, but you must be aware of the depth of emotion that this young incubus has wrought within me. I hired him upon sight and care not for the quality of his work, which is lackluster at best, but instead for the earnestness with which it is done, which delights me so much more.

I may have been able to carry out my resolution were it not for this man out of all coming to my doorstep, as now I cannot bare to lie when I have beheld such truth.

Douglas Richardson.

*

25 June: I have been Mister Richardson’s valet for five days now and it has been a godsend. Any other master would have thrown me out onto the street by now, for the amount of times I’ve accidentally set out brown shows with a black suit, or forgot to sharpen the razor. But instead of being chucked, Mister Richardson just takes one look at me and goes, “That’s alright, Martin,” in a long, drawn breath, almost sad. I don’t know why he keeps me, or why I should create such sadness within him. I guess he just pities how pathetic I am, like a stray dog or an orphan (with the latter one not being too far off the mark, certainly).

Mister Richardson even wants me to call him by his Christian name: Douglas! I shan’t – I do not deserve it – I am but a mere servant, so he shall forever be ‘Mister Richardson’ or ‘Sir’. But I have found that now suggested, it has planted itself inside of my brain, so that it is always on the tip of my tongue. ‘Yes, Douglas’, ‘Of course, Douglas’. But how improper! Without propriety I should have nothing going for me at all. It has become a struggle, though, between how I ought to act, and how I want to act. Mister Richardson doesn’t make this easy either, as it is rather well known amongst the other servants, who have taken it as their duty to inform and warn me, that he is a “deviant”. Speaking ill of one’s employer, though, can lead to nothing but trouble, in my opinion, and the talk left a rather sour residue within my mouth. Particularly due to Mister Richardson’s kindness and generosity. How could a man so inherently good be considered a fiend? I postulated this to Remy, the footman, who merely snorted derisively in response. “What?” I insisted.

“Just wait until he bores of you,” was all I could wrangle out of him. I do not know what, precisely, is meant by this remark, but it does cling to my mind as an ever present fear of my inevitable dismissal. Thankfully, Mister Richardson pays me an incredible wage for my position which, along with the comfort of lodgings and meals, allows for small luxuries and still leaving a considerable sum towards a contingency fund, lest I find myself on my own once more.

I pray each night that such a fate will not fall upon me, though. Never have I felt such comfort in a job, and slowly I find my ever so tense nerves easing. Mister Richardson has placed me upon the receiving end of three compliments so far during my employment and it has filled me with such a warmth that I had never felt before or since. I fear to lose this.

*

“You are absolutely ridiculous.”

Douglas was fanning himself with a yellow silk piece, to match the light suit he wore to lounge while Carolyn stood over him, impressive in her discipline. “Oh, come, Carolyn. It’s much too hot for argument.”

“Buck up your effeminate sensibilities and _listen_. If you continue on this road it will lead to your own destruction.” Taking the fan from Douglas’ hand, she forced the distracting movement to cease, pressing a finger against his lips to silence his protests. “Do not touch that boy. Do not touch _any_ more boys, at least until the papers switch their focus to another imagined immorality. Otherwise, you _will_ be disgraced.”

“Do not speak to me about _disgrace_ ,” snapped Douglas, all pretense of nonchalance evaporated in an instant. “I carry my disgrace with me each and every day, and the only worth of doing so is if I risk everything. If I do not, then these feelings are for nothing, an _imagined_ disgrace, which is ever the more shameful and futile.”

“Is it? Is it _truly_? Or is that merely your convoluted logic to justify your crimes?”

These words rested upon the air, the density of the humidity serving as a support. Douglas nearly leapt out of his perch upon the sitting room sofa, as if the floral woven upholstery had burned him. “My _crimes_?”

“I merely meant-"

“Could you possibly be referring to the love and passion I feel that is in accordance with the most base of human nature?”

“Your actions, however natural, are _illegal_. That is all that I meant.”

The next statement was breathed, barely audible had Douglas not stepped forward, staring into Carolyn’s eyes. “Do you think me a criminal?”

“You know I do not-"

“-but?”

“-but, as Arthur is returning home for the rest of his long vacation within the week, such an influence as yours might possibly make an unfavorable impression, particularly if met through the medium of seedy scandal headlines.”

Carolyn watched as Douglas pulled away from her, snatching back his fan with such a force that white lines of scraped skin appeared upon her hand, the pure color tainted with a brilliant red after a heartbeat. “So, you are ashamed of me.”

“You’re twisting my words now.”

“No, I am interpreting them correctly! Do not attempt to claim that it was not your ulterior motive in this ‘little chat’ – I shame you. Leave now, so that you can keep the dignified reputation that my association has apparently just begun to blacken.”

By this time, Douglas had fallen back to the windowsill on the other edge of the room; once again, the fan fluttered open with the whisper of silk against the hot air. “ _Please_ , Douglas-"

“Leave!”

Picking up her skirts, Carolyn obliged, with as much control as her shaken demeanor allowed. Listening to her footsteps retreat, culminating into the creak of a door opening and closing, Douglas refused to move until silence was restored. His heart rushed into his ears, soft and quick, the noise hot inside the internal drums. “Sir?”

And there stood Temptation himself, fawn eyes reflecting the innocence that vanished from Douglas’ mind by his mere presence, hands outstretched slightly gracelessly, but nonetheless perfect simply by its connection to the body of his personal Dorian. “Do you need anything, sir? Would…would you like anything, sir?”

Those eyes, those pure eyes clear as water, became a mirror – Douglas watched himself stalk forward, a predator stalking its prey – and the heat was then embraced as the weather’s consent to these passions. “As a matter of fact, Martin, there _is_ something I would like.”

*

30 June 18-

My darling Douglas -- I am left entirely at your mercy. I can only pray that you will be willing to accept my sincerest apologies. Forgive me my maternal instinct – but, at the risk of further insult, I can only say that you cannot possibly understand the frame of mind that one has after having a child. Arthur is my darling, born of my own flesh, and I will stop at nothing to protect him. However, I do realize that at times, I run the risk of paranoia, and that is what I am apologizing for. In my paranoia, I have wounded you, and that is what plagues me.

The only way I can prove that truly I do not mind your influence upon my Arthur, is that I beg you to call upon me at your leisure in the month. He is home most times so you will not have to worry about calling when he is out. I believe he would enjoy and benefit from your company immensely.

I miss you.

Ever Lovingly, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

  __*

30 June: I have failed to record life in the Richardson household for the past few days as I have been conflicted over whether this is such a thing that should be written about. But how can I not? This is meant to be a space to stash my secret feelings, a necessity to maintain myself during the very emotional and nerve-wracking time periods of my last area of employment, as well as being unemployed. Now I do not fear hysteria but rather that my chest might burst if I do not confide within these emotionless pages.

I can no longer be known for my propriety. I had always thought those stories of servants intimately connected to the gentlefolk that hired them were mainly perpetuated by gossipers in need of a good scandal to dramatize their lives – but now I see that it can happen. It has happened. And I do not know how I should feel about what has been done.

Perhaps I should simply narrate what occurred. Mister Richardson had a visitor over, one Ms. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, who he apparently has had a long and distinguished past with. He did not require my assistance but I stayed outside the door all the same - why I should do such a thing rather than enjoy a break, I do not know, only that I did not particularly wish to be separated from my kindly patron – and therefore caught snippets of an argument that broke out between them. I could not follow, precisely, what the argument was about (Mister Richardson, a criminal? No, there had to be a mistake), only that Ms. Knapp-Shappey had said something that offended Mister Richardson to the point where he ordered her to leave.

I hid behind a tapestry when she left, but I doubt that I needed to do so, as she was so distracted that she probably would not have noticed my presence anyway. I waited until I heard Remy lead her out of the house, before I approached my master, standing at the parlor window with a silk fan in hand. Anyone unacquainted with the man and the situation might have described his state as ‘nonchalant’ or ‘careless’ but as he turned to respond to my initial query, I could tell that such words were wholly inappropriate. Desolation entered my soul at the depth of sorrow resting in his expression. I continued in my questions, for I did not think he heard me the first time, despite the stillness of the house.

It is here that Mister Richardson engaged me in The Action. Previously, I had imagined many different scenarios in which I would show my utmost gratitude towards his hospitality, some more affectionate than others, but never had any of my dreams encapsulated such intimacy…

I shall throw caution to the wind, for my heart simply cannot bear to hold all this within me. Mister Richardson kissed me upon the mouth, not the chaste kisses that close friends share, but something that holds within it a promise of the closest communion. At first, I did not know what to say or do – I merely allowed it to happen, feeling the way his lips moved against mine, and wondering about all these feelings that suddenly arose – but as he pulled away, the fear within his face frightened me terribly. “Do you not like this?” Mister Richardson gasped, attempting to piece it together as something that did not matter. But I realized then what it was that he was asking of me, and why he should look so afraid at my lack of reciprocation.

“I…I merely was unsure of what you were asking, Mister Richardson,” I said, eyes cast down, remembering that one of my employers had mentioned that it was impolite to look them in the face. “I was waiting to be told what it was that you liked.”

Mister Richardson pulled me close, and whispered his desires in my ear, of which I blush to merely think of, and have not yet the strength of will to quantify them with my pen. We retreated to his room, locking the door behind us – and within those four walls, I came to realize that love and affection is all that matters.

This reminds me of the time that I roomed with someone who told me that each night, he went to the owner of the house, and laid with him. There had been scandals in the newspaper, and the only reason he had told me was that if he had kept it to himself any longer, the anxiety would have killed him. At the time, I did not understand, and merely told him that I hoped it would not be so, and went to sleep.

Now, I understand. I understand why he would bring such stress upon himself with what I had previously considered as mere rebellion against the law, and why he felt the need to tell me. It is a lonely thing to find such closeness and not be able to breathe a word of it to anyone; yet all I want to do is cry out all from the towers, in a fit of utter shamelessness.

Perhaps I should feel guilt from the illegality of our actions, but instead I merely feel satiation and complacency.


	2. Chapter 2

It was upon the velvet sofa in Carolyn’s parlor room, china cup of Margaret’s famous tea in hand, that Douglas realized he wasn’t truly angry at his oldest friend. A tad hurt, perhaps, but he understood her motives; it had been a long while since he last saw Arthur, but constantly the boy was in the forefront of her mind – it was not difficult to see that her concerns laid solely within him – Douglas’ own depravity of course meant nothing, except perhaps as a spot of trouble for a young man already struggling.

“Does this mean that you forgive me?” Carolyn asked, her own cup left untouched, betraying her worry in an otherwise stoic manner.

“Of course, my dear,” Douglas replied, reaching over to clap her hand within his own, and in doing so, brushing against the new red silk dress that she wore, still warm from the hands of the tailor. “Lord Shipwright?”

Carolyn flushed. “Indeed.” It was not in her nature for her emotions to be on display, and despite the inherent femininity of it, Douglas found that he rather enjoyed seeing her usual detachment pierced by passion. “Not that it’s any of _your_ business.”

“You know perfectly well that if it is anything, it is my business,” Douglas smirked, more witticisms resting on the tip of his tongue as recompense, when Arthur entered the room. Despite being aware of the large gap of time that had lapsed between the last that he saw Carolyn’s son Douglas still thought of him as that smiling young boy he had met once between school terms, and nothing could have prepared him for the young man that now stood before him. Chestnut hair, a rounded, almost cherubic, face, and brown eyes filled with the warmth of liquid chocolate, struck Douglas down and filled him with all the wrong images.

Had he not yet met Martin, and had Carolyn not been staring at him as a mother bear would a possible threat to her cub, there would have been no hesitation on what, precisely, he would have tried to get away with. Still, the Temptation was there, but Guilt would have overshadowed from the moment of conception, and not even that delicious Guilt that Sin usually evokes, but that which comes with the act of Betrayal. And Douglas liked to think of himself as a man honest to his heart, if nothing else.

Arthur sat down beside Carolyn, took both of her hands, then kissed each cheek delicately. “Good afternoon, Mummy, er…”

“Douglas Richardson. But please, refer to me as Douglas,” was the smooth reply, simply a mere hint at suavity that made his old friend pull a face, but if Arthur noticed either the suggestion of Douglas’ tone, or his mother’s discomfort, he made no indication.

“Certainly, Douglas. But I hope you will return the favor, and refer to me as Arthur.”

“No need for hope.”

Unlike his mother, emotions bubbled up willingly, his face a stage for the theatre of his feelings. “I am very glad to hear it,” He said, quietly, but slightly tremulous and deep with sincerity.

“Oh goodness, I can’t remember if I left my pearls on the counter, or if I packed them away. One doesn’t want the servants to get the wrong ideas. Light of my life, oblige an old woman and check on them for me?” Carolyn was acting far too sweet. A ruse, evident to anyone who knew her longer than a day, but Arthur lapped up the deceit like sweet wine.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about Mummy, but I definitely wouldn’t consider you old.” Another kiss upon her cheek and Arthur retreated, his rather plump backside a feast for Douglas’ unabashed eyes. “Oh, it was a pleasure to meet you, Douglas.”

“Believe me when I say that the pleasure was all mine.”

The second the door had clicked shut, Carolyn hissed, “You’re an absolute _devil_. He’s already smitten with you.”

“Really? I thought I was a perfect angel. It isn’t my fault he is already taken with wickedness.”

“Oh, shush!”

*

Hardly had the door shut behind Douglas, when Remy chose his moment to strike. “Might I have a word with you, sir?”

“Certainly, Remy. What is the matter?” It was a strange combination, with concern in Douglas’ tone, as he held out his hat, walking stick, and coat for Remy to take and put away, the gesture inherently haughty. “Well?”

Remy shut the closet door, before turning to face his employer, the impatience in his demeanor growing by the second. “Sir, it has come to my attention that you conduct yourself in a manner that is unholy in the eyes of our Lord.”

Were it not for the seriousness of the footman’s expression, Douglas might have laughed. “I did not hire you to preach to me, Remy.”

“But I cannot work in such a house of sin. It is against nature itself. The things I have seen, and heard…”

“Is this your resignation?”

“I wish it was. Instead, I offer a proposition.” At this, Douglas quirked an eyebrow but otherwise said nothing. “You will break off all of your perverse relations, and I will stay on. Or, I leave, and I go to the police with the evidence I have collected.”

“Is there no amount of payment that may…earn your silence?”

“I do not wish for financial restitution. All the payment that I need is the saving of your soul.”

Douglas had no response to that. Without another word, he turned around, and left Remy by himself in the foyer.

*

2 July 18-

C – My life has suddenly taken a dramatic turn and I am honestly at a loss as to what I should do. It is an odd thing, not having an immediate way out of this; is this how most people feel in life? I do not relish it, and wish the whole thing would dissolve itself, so I can continue on.

My footman, Remy, has decided to blackmail me. He claims that he has evidence on my “perversity” that he will show to the police if I do not change my ways. As per usual, I offered to pay his silence, something that has never failed before, yet…

He does not want any money. He merely wants to ‘save my soul’. Without even a pause for consideration over whether or not I wish for my soul to be saved – how inconsiderate all these religious folk can be.

I am sure you see my predicament. I cannot pay him off, and I cannot fire him in fear that he will turn in whatever it is that he has against me. The only thing I can do is to stop living in sin, which, as you know full well, is not an option.

Douglas Richardson.

*

2 July 18-

D – Scandals, scandals all abroad. On all fronts of my life there have been attacks, or so it seems. Forgive me a few lines and allow me to explain: it seems as though there has been much outrage over a young man at Arthur’s university. There was an investigation involved, and it seems that Arthur’s name has been uttered, and his name has now been thrown into question.

But I digress. My worry is starting to get the better of me. Your situation is the more crucial, I imagine – Arthur can be construed as a mistake, yet I fear that for you, my dear friend, there can be no such assurance. You lack subtlety, I’m afraid. And now look at where you are.

Do not think I lack sympathy, though. You know that I am the most sympathetic of your friends. However, I have no solution for you. If he does not wish to accept money, and you cannot release him back upon the streets, then it seems as though you have no choice but to do as he asks.

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

*

Each morning, at precisely nine o’clock, Martin would push open the door to Douglas’ bedroom with his foot, his arms full of a large tray of food, and cry out, “Good morning, Mr. Richardson!”

Usually Douglas won’t move, face still pressed intensely into his pillow and sheets bunched around them so as to provide the maximum protection against light. Martin immediately moved into his counteraction, and, after carefully placing the tray upon the bedside table, pulled back the curtains to each window. If the weather was nice, he would open them as well to let in the soot tinted breeze and filtered sunshine, trying to bring life back into his master with the sight and smell of a fresh day.

Many times, though, this simply wasn’t enough – after long nights of indulgence, or short nights of charades leaving him utterly incapable of anything beyond laying prostrate until noontime tea – and, when all else failed, Martin would kneel beside the bed, with one final look over his shoulder to ensure that they were alone, and peel back the layers of cushion and soft linen to place a kiss upon Douglas’ lips.

Such an action never failed to stir the older man with at least an attempt at awakening; usually no more than merely sitting up and staring bleary eyed at his surroundings until Martin presented him with the tray of food. “You are a Prometheus to my humble Neanderthal.” Taking the tray, he balanced it perfectly upon his lap before patting the side of the bed beside him. “Sit beside me, and I’ll make sure no Zeus dare punish you for your love.”

By doing so, it was almost as if they could feign domestic bliss, with the constant presence of Martin enough to nearly deceive Douglas of having slept together through the entire night as marriage would allow, were it not for the cold outer reaches of the bed that reminded him otherwise.

That was the routine that Martin had come to know, and cherish. Yet as he placed his first of the gentle kisses of the day, Douglas sprang up in bed and jolted from his touch. “No, no. Not anymore. This cannot be allowed anymore.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Martin asked, in confusion. He was still kneeling beside the bed, unmoving – filled with the fear of anticipation, as if Douglas had raised his hand and he was merely waiting for the strike to fall upon his cheek.

“Did Remy see you come up here? Does he know of this?”

“Remy is the one who arranges the food on the tray, sir.”

“Out of my room now. I will be taking my breakfast down in the dining room from now on.”

It was as if the grey clouds of a thunderstorm had wafted into the light blue sky of Martin’s eyes, and Douglas feared that the young man would cry, still on his knees before him. Yet his professional dignity overcame the torrent of emotion from this rejection, and he merely bowed his head slightly, and quietly said, “As you wish, sir,” before rising and leaving the room.

Douglas confined himself to his study for the day, the image of his valet’s sadness haunting the bottom of each tumbler of whiskey.

*

5 July: Finally, now, Mister Richardson has come to the full realization of my uselessness and no doubt is waiting for the perfect moment to dispose of me. I suppose it was inevitable, given my track record, yet I had really begun to believe that, perhaps, I did mean something. And for those few seconds, I felt lighter than air, and so I do not regret my decision to come here. But that doesn’t mean the fall back down to earth is any less painful.

It was certainly strange, though. One day, Mister Richardson was whispering affections into my ear and then proving them with his mouth upon what felt to me as every crevice of my body – the next day, he was reeling from my touch in horror and disgust, shrieking at me to leave him. Now he does not even look me in the eye as I attend to his daily needs. There is nothing I want more in this world at this moment than for him to acknowledge me with more than a mere wave of the hand, which I believe I deserve. Perhaps this is wrong of me, as just a servant. But have I not earned the right to that?

At least I have not yet been dismissed. But the oppression of its certitude makes me suffer through each moment. It is hindering my ability to work – I lost the small ounce of coordination that I had gained from my comfort here, and already find myself nearly dropping trays and spilling shoe polish upon the floor. Remy came across me cleaning up the polish and I begged him not to tell Mister Richardson. “It doesn’t matter if I do or not,” was his reply, “I fear that your time is coming to a close regardless.”

How could I have ever deluded myself into believing otherwise?

*

7 July 18-

D – I know that you are no doubt still dealing with your footman situation, but I require your assistance. If you have the time, pray call upon my house; reports from the dean of the school about Arthur are worrying me, yet as his mother he will not talk to me. As this is in your personal experience, I beg of you to talk to him in a way that I cannot. Gather where he lies in this matter, and if he has that certain predilection, apart on him some advice to aid him in discretion?

You would be forever in my debt if you would find it in yourself to do this.

Ever Lovingly, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

*

8 July 18-

C – 10 July, two o’clock in the afternoon.

D.R.

*

When Douglas arrived at Carolyn’s house, Arthur was already sitting upon the sofa, staring down into his cup of tea with more guilt than imagined possible in such a good-natured countenance, looking like the naughty schoolboy that he was accused of being. It was a Herculean effort on the part of Douglas to banish all further digressions from that one central thought, and instead, calmly said, “Carolyn asked me to discuss the nature of this scandal at your school, and your involvement in it.”

Arthur said nothing. Out of habit, he poured a cup of tea for his guest, yet forgot to ask whether the drink was desired or not, much less the preferred amount of sweetening. Prompted by the silence, the older man continued, “I only want to help you. But first you need to tell me what this is all about.”

“Did Mummy not explain in her letters?”

“I believe she kept silent on the exact details due to its delicacy, but there were rough implications made.”

Confliction entered the young man’s features – the warm eyes turned cold at the idea of a betrayal of friendship, and the ruin of his name – but after a moment’s deliberation, something in Douglas’ demeanor he found trustworthy, and began to speak. “My first few days, I met a boy named Robbie. We were both in the library, trying to study…but I was finding it difficult. He came over and offered to help me. Of course, I accepted readily, and we began a routine. Robbie was _really_ good at explaining things so that I could understand the material, unlike all my teachers. And he never mocked me for it, either.

“After a while, we started meeting just to be with one another. As friends, of course. He is _so_ smart, and can talk for hours on certain subjects without being boring. I usually listened to him, and sometimes, if we were alone, he would reward me with a kiss for being a good listener. But just having him _want_ to talk to _me_ was a reward in itself.

“Although, he did say to never tell anyone that he would do that. _‘I like you too much for that’_ , he told me once. I gathered that wasn’t something we were supposed to be doing, so I kept silent. Then I started to hear all the mean things people were saying about Robbie. I figured that’s why he didn’t want me to say anything, so I wouldn’t get wrapped up in all of that.”

“Too late for that,” Douglas remarked, with the slightest of smirks. It wasn’t that he found anything in Arthur’s story particularly amusing, the sarcasm having become customary in all his interactions now. If anything, however, he found the idea of anyone questioning the innocence of this simple creature absolutely astonishing; but there was a beauty about him that it must be equally as astonishing to believe that this Robbie fellow, whose delights were so well known, would not have involved him in his actions. “Was that all you two ever did, Arthur? Kiss?”

“Yes.” Arthur’s eyes immediately glued upon the surface of his untouched beverage, chilled now.

“Did you ever wish that Robbie would do more than just kiss you?”

“Honestly?” Douglas nodded in a fashion he hoped was encouraging. “I do not know. All I know is that Robbie is a _brilliant_ person and doesn’t deserve all this.”

The uncertainty of the depth of Arthur’s emotions and what that possibly means is as murky for the young man as it was for Douglas. But he did not seem to be in much trouble beyond simply having a close friendship, and that in itself would certainly never be enough to incriminate him, so insisting upon a defined answer for an area as grey as London fog seemed rather pointless. “I agree, Arthur, but this is the world we live in. I do not think you are in much trouble, yet unfortunately, I cannot say anything for your friend.

“However, as a close friend of your mother’s, I would like you to know that if a time comes in which you ever need advice of any sort upon these matters again, my door shall always be open to you. Good day to you.”

“Thank you very much, Douglas.” Arthur smiled as he said the first name, ignoring the neutral gesture of the hand shake that the older man was offering to instead hug him tightly. “I very much appreciate you allowing me to talk about these things.”

Douglas somehow untangled himself from Arthur’s surprisingly tight grasp, and took his leave. Carolyn was waiting in the library for the verdict with bated breath. “There should be no worries on the front of the scandal. It seems as though Arthur was only an extremely good friend to the man in question, but nothing else.”

“This is a relief. But what of his disposition?”

“It would seem as though your son’s preference is as much a mystery to himself as it is to the rest of us. Perhaps one day, he shall meet his true love, and there is no telling whom that may be. But if I were you, I would not concern myself with all of that just yet. His age is a confusing one for all.”

Carolyn nodded to this, the assertion made by her old friend obviously doing much to ease her mind. “Thank you very much for this, Douglas.”

“It is my pleasure,” He replied, and turned to leave, yet something upon his mind stayed his hand from the doorknob, and made him hesitate. “However, I do believe that in your last letter, you mentioned something about being forever in my debt.”

“Did I?”

“Indeed, you did. But I think that I have a proposition that might just erase some of that debt, at least in part.”

“You have but to name it and I will see what could be done.”

This time when Douglas smirked, it was, for the most part, out of amusement.

*

11 July: Mister Richardson spoke to me for the first time since the 4th. He had ordered me to check the supply of fresh wood for the night fires – he prefers the smell to that of coal – and then surprised me by joining me upon the back porch. The joy from the interaction that I had begun to crave from him superseded the subject for the first few moments, given that I figured he was going to berate me. The seriousness of his tone brought me back down to the surface of the earth, though – we only had a couple of minutes at best, and I needed to listen very carefully to every word. Of course, I was more than willing to oblige. 

What he had to say was shocking. Perhaps I have no room to speak, for I have written in previous entries that I have lost my sense of propriety given the conduct that Mister Richardson and I have engaged in. Yet I find this was stemmed from a mutual appreciation, of sorts; of love, even, if I dare say it. Never would I have compromised myself for anything as vile as that of the hatred and degradation that comes from blackmailing. The nerve of Remy, to do such a thing! It is despicable.

However, the most important part of the conversation was that Mister Richardson required me to distract Remy, in order to reclaim what the footman had stolen from him. “I don’t quite care how you do it, so long as Remy’s concentration is entirely consumed by this. When I’m finished, I’ll come find you two.”

This is to be done tomorrow. Before I begin, I am to slip a note underneath the study door, where Mister Richardson will be waiting. I still haven’t the faintest what I am going to do, but hopefully a streak of creativity will hit me early in the morning so that I do not fail.

*

Douglas was sprawled across the sofa in his study, a novel in hand, when the white slip of paper he had been waiting for was slipped underneath the bottom crack of the door. Listening to the footsteps retreating, he did not move until he could hear them no longer – then he picked up the paper, which only read: _Now_.

He had not requested any special message to be written upon the note, half out of curiosity of what, if anything, Martin would choose to say. But of course, he should have expected something so clear and concise, rather than a telling stanza from a Wilde poem, or a quotation from Plato. For some reason, he preferred this little, three letter word, tiny and neat, each stroke of the pen precise.

Five minutes had passed, and he thought it safe. Using the side staircase specifically for servants, Douglas made his way to the working quarters. Martin also seemed to have impeccable timing; it was midday, and the majority of the servants had something that occupied their time, whether it be preparing lunch or cleaning. There was hardly anybody around the bedrooms that a second glance was not thrown his way, as he unlocked Remy’s door with a skeleton key.

A small bed, a night stand, a wardrobe, and a desk were all this room contained. There was a bible on the nightstand, and what looked to be a journal beside a pen and inkwell on the desk. Douglas closed the door behind him, and immediately began his search, gently pulling apart each section of the room and piecing it back precisely as it had been before. He found nothing.

But Douglas was not a man to be disheartened. He kneeled upon the floor and inspected each floorboard in case one might be loose, and in the space underneath the wardrobe. And when he felt that he had checked each miniscule crevice in the room, he brushed himself off, and, as a last effort, picked up the Bible.

Ironed flat and pressed between the pages of Leviticus, Douglas found the letter he had written to his previous valet, vividly expressing his physical adoration of his body.

Pocketing the letter, he placed the book precisely as he had found it, and left the room, locking it once again.

The only way back into the main portion of the house was by that same service staircase that Douglas had used before, yet as he put away his skeleton key, a commotion informed him that this was not an option.

Ducking quickly into a broom closet, Douglas left the door ajar ever so slightly in order to see out of it. Remy, trailed by an insistent Martin, was storming towards his room. “Leave me alone, you little fairy, or I’ll go right to Mister Richardson and inform him of your sloppy behavior, with a suggestion towards your own dismissal.”

“I-I-I just want to apologize! I just wished to attain some kitchen skills, s-since you said Mister Richardson was probably going to get rid of me. I didn’t _mean_ to spill the soup! Please, _please_ don’t tell him! I am begging you.”

How convincing Martin was during this little speech amazed Douglas – he hadn’t realized he had such a proficient little actor in his midst – but once the valet had finished, he realized that this was the time to move. Remy’s attention was on Martin, his back to the broom closet, which Douglas slipped out of, and silently made his way back up towards the staircase.

Rather than escape back into the confines of his section of the house, Douglas turned about face, and made a grand show of making his way down to the hallway of the servant’s bedroom. “What is going on, here?”

“Sir! What are you doing down here?” Martin squeaked, wide-eyed, but Remy’s face darkened, and he stepped away from the other servant.

“Nothing is going on, sir.”

“As it should be, Remy, particularly given that I am dismissing you. I want you out of this house by nightfall.”

“If you think that to be the wise choice, sir, so be it.”

“Yes, indeed. So be it.”

Douglas watched Remy unlock his door, and shut it with a force that was not necessary for the thin wood frame. “Martin, I desire to reorganize my wardrobe. Perhaps by color, this time?”

“Might I suggest arranging the clothes by season for optimal organization?”

“You may, but that doesn’t mean I’ll take the advice.”

They ascended the staircase without incident, climbing up the whole three flights to the door that lead to the second storey hallway. Once the emptiness of this passage was ascertained, Douglas could not control himself any longer – the kiss was not the delicate yet deeply intimate type of which their very first was, but rather, the feverish and frenzied type that was consistent with a time of forced repression. “But what if another servant sees?” Martin gasped. “And this whole process repeats itself?”

The ten steps to his bedroom felt like a mile, but with Martin’s fingers laced within his own, it was a perfect mile.

*

15 July 18-

Dear Mr. Douglas Richardson – I thought it would interest you to know what has become of your ex-footman, the man known as “Remy”. He attempted to contact the police at Station Four, spouting of your “indecency”, and, if you will allow me to be so crude, accusing your personage of being a “sodomite”. Luckily, I had personally informed the Commissioner of the dastardly situation that Remy had put you in. He has been detained and charged with blackmail and slander. I have no doubt that he will be found guilty.

If there is anything else you may need, do not hesitate to contact me, or even Ms. Knapp-Shappey, if you would prefer.

Lord Hercules Shipwright.


End file.
